


Spa Day

by ManyManyMonsters (orphan_account)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Hopefully Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Infinite Coffee and Protection Detail, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-12 00:54:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7077820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ManyManyMonsters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sure Bucky would follow Steve anywhere, but will he do the same for his unit leader of Hair Club?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hair Club Advanced

**Author's Note:**

  * For [owlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlet/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Long Road Begins at Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5339822) by [owlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlet/pseuds/owlet). 



> I love love love Owlet's Infinite Coffee and Protection Detail, so somehow while brainstorming prompts, this started happening. I really hope it's okay -- 100% inspired by and credit given to that series and author. Time wise it would play somewhere near the current spot (chap 23) of The Long Road Begins at Home but before Advanced Happiness Skills. 
> 
> I think it'll play out in 3 chapters?

Abstract things could also create calm in the mind. Increase the space of safety.

Things like routine and plans.

Coffee with Hair Club was predictable. Occurred twice a week, 09:30. Official voluntary socialization with mission assists. 

Flying Sam would approve.

But also, now there was Hair Club Night once a month with TV or movies, wine and snacks and strangely very little hair care short of Ms. Potts brushing his or braiding the red head’s.

“Why are you invited to a girl’s night?”

Roger’s confusion seemed genuine but Barnes gave him a dark look for the wording.

“Women’s night.” He amended. “Why are you invited to women’s night?”

“It’s Hair Club.”

“You know Tony calling you Hair Club for Men is a joke, right?”

“First rule of Hair Club, you do not talk about Hair Club.”

Steve frowned, but said nothing as Barnes left.

Let flying Sam or Romanoff explain it. Barnes wouldn’t go that far. It was touch therapy. The women were safe. Relaxed. Calming. They didn’t mind his quiet presence and seemed to enjoy doing his hair. He’d let them braid it, slick it back, hot iron it, make it a bun, and periodically put it in bunches or something called ‘dog-ears’ that made them laugh. Also, they openly cheered his baked goods — as well they should.

And if hair care was a good step in relearning non threatening or even pleasant touch, Rogers should be thanking them for every time Barnes didn’t flinch, produce a weapon, or just resist stiffening up against his constant urges to hug. How could he explain in a way he was doing this for Steve as much as for himself?

YOU JUST DID

Shut up.

  


*

  


“That slate grey is awful.” Hill nodded at the house rehab program.

“Agreed.” Pepper chimed in. “It’s over done and ugh, so institutional. It’s your home! Wouldn’t you want more color?”

Barnes blinked sleepily at the TV from where he sat on the floor in front of Potts who had introduced him to a new boar bristle brush and was still absently running it through his hair. It was a good soft brush. Just the right amount of stroke and scratch on the scalp. Cat Eleanor would love it, but he might fight her for it. “I like neutrals sometimes.” He offered.

“Hush you.” Nat smacked his shoulder lightly. “It looks like a chalkboard and you know it.”

Barnes smirked and closed his eyes again. Let them paint it pink and chartreuse. He didn’t have to live in it. Also, he was so relaxed between the routine and gentle hands in his hair, he hadn’t even flinched at the swat from the red head. 

Go Barnes.

The television paused a moment and a small tone chimed.

“Yes JARVIS?”

“Ms Potts. You have a call from the salon. Miss Angie.”

“Thank you. Yes, please put her through.”

Hill stretched her arms over her head with a satisfied smile at Natasha. “Spa Day!” She sang.

What.

Barnes had never heard Hill sing.

“Ms Potts. I just wanted to confirm three for this Saturday, 11 am.”

“Just perfect. We’re so looking forward to it Angie.”

“Counting the hours!”

“Hi Maria.”

“Hey Angie — the gang’s all here.” Natasha spoke up, now also grinning.

“Oh great. Since I’ve got you, do you have any requests for stylists? Therapists?”

“Julie!” Nat said without hesitation.

“Eton.” Hill nodded.

“And you?” The Angie woman asked. “Any special requests?”

“I am in your capable hands.” Pepper smiled. 

  


As the call ended, Hill actually squeaked and jogged her fists with excitement.

Really weird.

“Spa Day?” Barnes asked.

Nat’s face grew thoughtful watching him glance among them. “Yeah,” She explained. “Kind of like hair club, but to the extreme. Manicures, pedicures, facials, hair done… A full body massage.”

Barnes nodded. “For three?”

What was this sensation? Oh yes.

Disappointment.

CONFIRM.

Confirm. Also, shut up.

Maria frowned as she saw Pepper looking down, stricken, at him.

“With the touching and the massage, we didn’t think you’d want to go.” She said quietly. “Oh Barnes. I’m so sorry. I should’ve asked.”

He didn’t like the sad look or that he was the cause of it. “No. Assessment is logical. It’s okay.”

Nat squinted at him. “So, just to be clear, you do not want to join us? Get your toenails painted. Have someone rub all over your naked back?”

Of course the red head would be confusing. Was she trying to talk him into or out of it? A unit stays together. “You said it was Hair Club.” 

“No. No.” Hill cut in. “Stop that.  Don’t listen to her, Barnes. Think about this you two.” She nodded to Pepper and Nat, all business. “They do men’s manicures too and he’s had his hair cut down there.” Then to Barnes,“If you enjoy hair brushing, the facial might even be nice and you can always bow out of the massage — they often do that last.”

Little lights seemed to have gone off in Pepper’s head. “Oh! And I think I even know a way around that!” Her smile came back and she reached forward and stroked a lock out of Barnes’s face. “JARVIS, can you reach Angie for me again?”

  


*

“Hot rocks?” Steve stopped over his cereal, spoon dripping milk and Wheaties.

That’s right champ. Just like the ones in your giant head.

CONFIRM.

So much confirm buddy.

“Smooth river rocks. Make up of the rocks holds heat. Gravity and weight lets them sink in and relax the muscles.”

Pepper had thoroughly explained it — down to showing him massage tables online, the little donut to lay your face in and explaining what to wear and bring.

“That going to relax your shoulder?” Steve’s eyes flicked to the metal bicep while Barnes unfolded a small gym bag.

“Stark sent them the scans he took. No rocks over the support pins.”

“So Tony knows you’re getting a facial?”

You worried he’ll send photographers, pal? Have you already forgotten the ‘No Hugging’ sign?

Barnes shrugged and smirked. “Jealous?”

“No. No. Go have fun.” Steve’s hands flew up in surrender and he grew a bemused smile watching Bucky add a t shirt and pajama bottoms to the gym bag. “PJs?”

“Ms Potts said loose comfortable clothes.”

“Well, the sheep pants are the best of the bunch.”

CONFIRM.

Confirm.


	2. Selective Downloads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pedicure ahoy! Also, the mission briefing is sometimes counter productive -- and sometimes not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow! Thank you all for the encouraging comments!! <3  
> *sniff*

Barnes half expected Stark to follow them down to the salon floor to watch the proceedings after Roger’s comments, but the lobby outside the salon is quiet other than Hill and the red head sipping take out coffees. Ms Potts is just inside the door talking to a smiling blonde woman at the front counter.

“Morning.” Maria smiled.

Barnes lifted a hand and smiled back, but he caught the red head studying his eyes as they swept the interior of the salon. 

It looked just as it did when he’d had hair cuts. The archways with the different soft drapes near the check in area he’d assumed went to the offices and supply rooms, but Pepper had explained, they also led into to the spa area. 

How big was it back there.

“You’ve done Spa Day before?”

“Not often enough.” Maria snorted. 

“But yes, we have. You think Tony would put up with us not checking out all the amenities?” Natasha’s mouth crooked. “Okay, so, first we’ll go into a lounge. Through there.” She pointed. “You’ll be paired with someone who’ll talk about the services. Mostly the hair cut and the facial and they may want to look up close at your skin. Then we’ll change and get robes… And then we’ll pick out nail polish colors — you can join us if you want,” She smirked. “But otherwise you just relax, drink some wine, eat some chocolate until we get sorted.”

“Then what?”

She ignored his tension. “They’ll do the manicure, pedicure and facial first, all at the same time. You get to lay back and take a nap and wake up pretty. It’s like a fairy tale.”

Barnes glared.

“Or you can sit up and micromanage them. I don’t care.”

She is still terrible. Why does the person who’s the fastest to read him also have to be the biggest pain in the ass?

 

*

 

Behind the floaty drapes there is a lot of bamboo. So much bamboo…

And little fountains.

Also, most of the lights are gold and at half power. Relaxing atmosphere in the future means unmoving candlelight and the sound of running water. 

And Peruvian pipe music.

But the place smells nice, like clean water and vanilla, the robes are the same white fluffy plush ones that appear in all of Stark’s bathrooms and at the pool, so familiar, and the chairs in the lounge are soft and comfortable. Also, there are small round chocolates with different fillings, tea and wine and a plate of fruits and cheeses. No olives, but still good.

Pepper knows the entire staff by name, because of course she does, and introduces them one by one to Barnes.

The consultation for the facial isn’t too nerve wracking. His aesthetician is a thin woman, Max, with very short dyed black hair. She does look closely at his face, but just says he has nice skin and lets him examine two compounds for the treatment. 

One looks like the wasabi paste at The Lucky Carp.

Undesirable.

The other resembles mud.

Also undesirable, but at least familiar and probably not spicy. Also, it smells like almonds, so he selects it.

“Perfect.” Max tells him. “And may I say, those are the best lounge pants I’ve ever seen.”

Max has good taste.

 

Romanoff and Hill however, have very questionable taste. They are joking around and laughing at the little cabinets of nail lacquer while Potts smiles and occasionally shakes her head. And while Potts selects a healthy rosy pink color for both hands and feet, Hill chooses some dull brownish purple the color of a bruise.

Didn’t you just tell the house people to stop painting walls grey?

 And the red head refuses to make up her mind and picks several handfuls of bottles — some of which are green.

“What do you think?” She holds up a couple for him to judge. “What does it remind you of?”

“Nail fungus.”

Potts almost spits some of her wine out.

“I was going for matching Banner — or at least bright and colorful.” She snorts. “Fine. Turquoise it is.” 

The light sky blue color is an improvement.

It’s interesting to see red shades aren’t the only acceptable colors anymore. He even likes some of the blues and golds. But the greens and unhealthy colors make no sense unless they are meant as camouflage, which they clearly are not. 

 

Once nail colors are chosen, the women settle in, sampling the snacks and chatting while waiting to be collected for phase 2. 

Barnes sits forward, one eye on them and one on the curtained foyer leading further in.

One.

Two.

Three.

While Pepper showing him massage tables and having JARVIS give a visual tour of the entire facility on her television was all a very thorough briefing, it is quite another thing to be physically present in the environment. Sometimes being forewarned is forearmed — and sometimes it just feeds apprehension. 

For example, presently the briefing is standing by on high alert, as though drumming fingers and waiting.

NOT HELPING.

Confirm. Let’s get this over with.

What will his reaction be to the next stage?

Unknown. …No one else seems worried though. 

And while the Asset, if allowed, would have automatically selected Romanoff or Hill as this unit’s commander, both the mission and briefing are unanimously in agreement with Barnes that Potts with her kindness and calm is the leader of Hair Club. Even flying Sam approves of her as a good example…

So when Angie parts the curtain and asks if they are ready, he falls in line behind Pepper and looks over her shoulder assessing the new space.

Distance to fire door 6 meters. Two other exits leading to the lobby. 

He follows Potts through a wide plant lined hall into an open archway where, of course, he can hear yet another fountain. She steps aside so he can see in clearly: their room for the pedicures, etc.

Which is full of large padded reclining chairs surrounded by equipment trays full of sharp metal things.

The briefing lets him know it is oh so ready with an ocean-sized download to play.

DENIED.

Confirm. Completely denied. Been there, done that.

The briefing wants to pound its fists on a table.

Shut it, pal.

It doesn’t show him anything. No chains. No Chair. No tank.

That’s right — because this is not even remotely the same. 

This is the complete opposite. I get to choose whether or not to review that material and it is not necessary here. I’m not helpless to a trigger over some window dressing. Sit your eager ass down.

“What do you think Barnes?” This from Natasha, voice offhand for the benefit of the nearby staff.

It’s not perfect. He’s apprehensive, but it’s low level. It’s fine. He knew not to expect perfect.

Barnes sniffs and glances at Ms. Potts, tipping his head towards the room with a small smile.

“Ladies first.”

She beams and trots in.

 

Max lets him look the chair over, unhurried, and shows him the reclining feature. It has a basin with taps and spa jets at the foot of it and the whole thing is upholstered in padded cream colored vinyl. There’s little else to it really.

He sits and settles in, listening to Hill and the young man starting her facial, Eton, hash over the home rehab show, snickering and agreeing with each other over every complaint. It reminds him of Esther scowling and critiquing one of the cooking shows that had too many short cuts. It really is no different than an evening in Potts living room - except the furniture is weirder.

 

The nail tools do look suspiciously like sharp medical instruments, but Max explains each step, even demonstrating on her own hand what she will do with them. Instead of reaching for him, she just offers her hand for when he’s ready to start.  And while there is scrapping, filing and some pressure as everything is trimmed and cuticles pushed back, there are also warm fingers smooth with lotion kneading and massaging his palm, stretching, spreading and pulling each digit. It is strange, to be sure, but also soothing and pleasant. He feels a little sorry the left hand can’t receive this attention.

The left _arm_ however is another story.

“You think nail polish remover would take that off?” Natasha turns on her side in the recliner to squint at his shoulder.

What. 

Ug. The red star. It has always been hard for him to examine it without a mirror, but he doesn’t forget that it’s there. As though saying the arm is not _his_ arm — which it most certainly is.

Hill makes a scrunched frown. “Doubtful since it’s survived this long.”

“Why? I can see scratches in it like car paint. It’s on the surface.”

Now all the nail techs are peering at it. Great.

Uncomfortable.

Potts asks the, duh, obvious question. “Do you want it off Barnes? Nail polish remover might not do it, but they have sanding and buffing tools too.”

It’s a thought that has occurred to him many times before. 

Reacquainting himself with his own face, his own eyes. Halloween and putting on the clothes and hairstyle of historically accurate Bucky, wondering if it would make a link… help him reclaim more of himself. It was his body. His arm. The mark was a bad reminder of no control. Held and branded like cattle or stamped out like an industrial machine.

He could have asked Stark to remove it. Had even thought to, with that insanely stocked workshop of his. But it seemed frivolous. Or maybe too personal a favor from someone who wouldn’t stop commenting on his appearance.

“They could even replace it with something else — maybe a little shield?” Romanoff smirks.

“Nonsense. It should be a chocolate chip cookie. That’s his Patronus.” Hill adds. Pepper tries not to laugh.

He ignores them and looks at the salon worker’s waiting gaze. “Would it come off?”

“With sanding, I think so. Wouldn’t hurt to try — er, or would it?”

“Let’s find out.”

 

* 

 

Now he is wet faced from rinsing off his mud mask - he didn’t care to leave it on once it grew dry and itchy - and Max is at his feet filling the basin for the pedicure. Removing the star only took a little longer than manicuring his right hand, but no one is in any hurry or even concerned that everyone be done at the same time…

Romanoff appears to be asleep.

That buzzing might even be a snore.

Pepper is sipping something fizzy through a straw and smiling at him while her toenails are made pink. She has the wasabi colored stuff covering her face, and her red hair piled in a loose clip on top. She waves, gives a thumbs up, then makes a silly face for him behind the pastel green mask. 

Barnes feels himself give a dumb grin back. 

Why.

Because Hair Club’s unit leader is adorable.

CONFIRM.

Confirm.

Beside her, Hill is stretched out, face glossy and sticky-looking. Possibly honey. The cucumber slices over her eyes make her look like an alien, but she wears a content smile as the nail technician massages her hand.

He mops his face dry and Max takes the towel from him, pitching it expertly into a basket before touching the water with her elbow. “All set. You ready?”

He nods.

She rolls up the cuffs of the sheep pants before cupping each heel and guiding his feet into the swirling water.

“Temperature’s good?”

“Very good.”

“Excellent. It’s just like the manicure, but with more sanding and scrubbing. You can stretch out.” She has one warm hand in the water around one foot while the other pats his calf. Her tone is light and easy, but her eyes are carefully checking in with him.

He identifies the feeling he gets from the attentiveness and her calm straightforward manner.

Trust.

He settles back and closes his eyes, focusing on the warmth, the contact. It’s okay.

The water, the touch, is relaxing…

The mission briefing wants to give him something.

Now what.

No. Not the chair again. We covered that. Don’t.

It’s different.

No.

Steve…

What.

And there it is. A smell of chill air, gasoline, musty canvas and mud. He is sitting in Steve’s tent on a cot after the rescue mission. Other soldiers are bringing hot water, meals and other needed supplies for the escapees, but Steve won’t wait on a medic. Bucky was barefoot as they fled the building, and ran across wreckage and who knows what else before they pulled boots off a downed HYDRA goon for him for the trek back. No socks and they didn’t fit, but infinitely better than nothing.

“Let’s have a look.”

Back in Brooklyn, his impulse would have been to argue, but not here. It’s shock. Exhaustion. Pride is stupid and any help or comfort is a luxury. So Steve is fully unlacing the boots and gingerly sliding Buck’s bruised bloody feet out and slipping them into a pan of warm water. He washes them, his hands gentle, applying soap and lifting each to examine the cuts.

“They don’t look too bad Buck. We’ll get ‘em good and clean though. Have the medic take a look when he can.” With him kneeling in front of him, it’s easier for Bucky to see Steve as he remembered, smaller. But that Steve, though he’d kill himself trying, couldn’t have fought there to find him. Couldn’t have gotten him out of that trap and made the hump back to base… But he would have done this — looked after Bucky and remembered his naked raw feet.

And after they were soaked, cleaned and dried, Steve dabbed each wound with antiseptic and carefully rolled two pairs of clean socks over them.

After that…

After that.

Steve had helped him change his clothes, saw that he ate, and then put his arms around him and guided him back to make him lay down on the cot. “It’s alright Buck. I found you. It’s alright.” And it was good. Strong arms around him. Steve’s familiar face, voice, smell. His hand stroking his hair and drawing the rough, but warm, wool blankets over him. “You rest now.”

 

Barnes blinked at the ceiling, feeling Max’s hands lift and rub the ball of his right foot.

There was a lump in his throat, but his eyes were dry.

It was… A hard memory, but not a bad one. 

He hadn’t been able to respond to Steve then. Couldn’t process or engage or speak of what had been done to him, and ultimately by morning had thrown himself into behaving like his old self — nothing had happened. All is well and Steve is back and he’s Captain fucking America. James Bucky Barnes had the memories, the connection to himself to make that immediate transition then.

But the memory of that first night back finally at base… Steve’s touch and closeness was all he wanted. Was what allowed him to give in to sleep without nightmares.

 

And in the memory, he was not watching the Bucky person. 

He _was him._

It was not a briefing, not separate from him or foreign. It was his own memory.

He will need to text flying Sam about this later.

In the meantime, the rough sandy thing Max is scrubbing his heels with feels incredibly good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a big chunk of this written when I wrapped up and posted chapter one, so that's why I was able to get chap 2 up so quick. I'm not a super fast writer, so there'll be a bit longer wait for the last chapter, but I hope not too long! :)


	3. Hot Rocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's have a massage, okay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! It's finished! This is my first MCU fic, and I want to thank everyone for making me feel so welcome and making this so much fun with all the comments! <3 I really hope you enjoy the conclusion! :)

When the pedicure is finished up, Max hands Barnes over to a shampoo girl. 

So soon?

It feels like an interruption — except that Pepper and everyone else is already drifting through to the next open room where the sinks are. He clearly got the longest of the foot scrubbing. 

…And maybe they paused on Romanoff when she started snoring.

Heh.

He looks at his manicured hand curiously. The nails are short, even and clean, but now they are also smooth and glossy like glass.

His feet also feel cool and soft now, and looking down, his toe nails are as shiny as those on his hand.

It’s…  …odd. They don’t look bad. But it is different.

“It’s never too late for some polish, slowpoke.” Nat cracks from one of the shampoo seats.

“They look fine.” Maria assures him. “Get over here. We all know the scalp massage is why you signed up.”

CONFIRM.

Okay. Fine, yeah, confirm.

 

As with the facial compounds, Max brings over several different hair care products and lets him smell and select from them. The shampoo girl, a younger woman, giggles at him and he sees Max poke her with an elbow. Catching his glance, Max smirks and rolls her eyes.

Oh, it’s like that is it?

Barnes looks the younger girl full in the eye with a soft, earnest curiosity. “Which do you like?”

She gulps, eyes going wide and a center bottle slips from her hands and bounces on the tiles.

“Lemongrass it is.” Max picks up the plastic bottle. “Celie, you’re off the field. Hit the showers.” 

The younger woman, now beet red, scowls and hurries away.

He tries not to smile.

Still got it. 

Guiding him back into the neck rest, Max cups his head. “You’re terrible. You know that, right? Get that smug look off your face.”

Barnes meets her eyes, offering one dimple. “It doesn’t work on you?”

“Batting for the other team. My appreciation is purely aesthetic — so luckily your delicate snowy virtue is safe with me.”

He hears a snort laugh from Romanoff at this.

What does she know.

The mission briefing jumps to attention and waves frantically several reams of what Romanoff knows.

DENIED.

Oh so denied. You’ve done enough today. We’re trying to relax here.

He lets himself grin at Max as she adjusts the hot water and begins working the citrus smelling gel into his hair and scalp. As hoped, it feels really good and he finds his neck loosening in the steam to drop his head into her strong working hands. It seems impossible that hot rocks could top this, but he hopes she will do the massage too.

Does everyone know about this or just the women? Do Banner and Barton come down here as well, or is this Hair Club’s secret? Banner probably wouldn’t.

But it might be good for him.

As Max rinses him and squeezes water from his hair, he catches her eye. “Do the others do this? Hill said you do men’s manicures often.”

She rubs his head considering. “Sure. Common stuff… Well the hair cuts, obviously, but also hot towel shaves. I probably do more manicures than pedicures on the guys — people see your hands more often. But mostly, there’s a lot of manscaping.”

What.

“Manscaping?”

“Waxing. You know, to remove hair?”

Ug. No.

Also, ow.

“Eton takes Stark’s back hair off about once a month. Twice in the summer.”

Barnes smirks.

“Oops.” Max puts a hand in front of her mouth. “Probably broke doctor patient confidentiality there. Heh.”

 

More than any part so far, the hair cutting portion of the ritual seems to require the most socializing and small talk. Everyone is sitting up, alert and can see one another, so it makes sense. And it’s not that he has ever felt self conscious or ill at ease around the women — quite the opposite and he is still wondering how they flip the calming switch in him almost automatically…  But he does notice that he’s the most quiet of the group and it makes him feel…

Unknown.

The conversation isn’t important. Not like a mission briefing… Or is it? Is he not registering the pertinent information that’s being exchanged here?

Mostly they talk about television. More specifically, they are talking about a fantasy show Rogers had told him he probably did not want to see.

Everyone in the tower watched it.

“It’s very popular.” Barnes had pointed out one night they’d looked for something to stream. “And there are dragons.”

“I know Buck, but it’s got a lot of violence. Like sadistic stuff and rape. The opening scene is a dad having his sons watch him behead a guy — and the dad’s one of the sympathetic characters.”

Oh.

They’d watched Jurassic Park instead. Action. Interesting science premise. And dinosaurs. The tyrannosaur was wonderful even if she didn’t get to eat the smart ass mathematician who reminded him of Stark. Still, an excellent film.

Presently, Eton is quietly crowing about the last episode of the fantasy epic. “God. That made me so happy when he finally got his. Right?”

Maria smiles, but doesn’t nod while he’s weilding scissors. 

Smart woman.

“Oh wait —“ The younger man turns to Barnes, eyes wide with worry. “Are you caught up?”

Courtesy.

“I don’t watch it. S’okay.”

This doesn’t seem like the answer Eton expected. “Are you…  … going to watch it?”

None of these things matter. Entertainments are just to distract, to pass the time. Enjoyable yes, but why did so many people act like they were life and death important?

It dawned on Barnes that everyone here has said something about themselves or commented on what others shared. The content didn’t matter so much as the give and take and tone of the delivery. He could hear Sam saying things about effort and working to increase safe spaces. Was he coasting on the rest of Hair Club’s social skills?

He managed a smile and shook his head at the young man. “Nah. I like science fiction.”

“Oh! Have you seen the new Star Wars trailer? It looks amazing!”

 

*

 

After the shampoo and trim, Barnes learns that Max will not be his hot stone masseuse.

That’s alright. After the heavy memory dump, the amount of new experiences, and rousing himself to engage in a Star Wars discussion, laying face down and still with just some quiet rocks sounds good. He follows the group down the hall where behind a heavy drape is a dim room with four massage tables, two pairs facing one another.

Here, he is introduced to Amanda, his massage therapist.  She has very large black eyes and her hair is pulled back tight into dog ears near her crown. It’s just like Hill had done to him, but Amanda’s hair is so curly, it has been picked out to form perfect soft spherical globes that defy gravity. 

They are like space hair from a Buck Rogers comic. 

Little hair planets…

She coughs to get his attention.

Oops.

But she looks amused. Good.

“Mr Stark sent me the images of your implants. I wanted to go over with you what we’ll do and my strategy to work around them.” She sets a tablet on the draped table and pulls up some diagrams. “Sound good?”

He does a quick inventory of the room. It’s warm and softly lit and the pipe music has been replaced with something that sounds like the ocean. Hill and Romanoff are selecting oils with their therapists and Potts is sitting on the table across from him, chatting with Angie while she piles her hair back up in a loose clip. Their eyes meet and she gives him a little wink. Unit leader has signaled the go ahead. Everything is fine.

“Sounds good.” He agrees.

 

After looking through the proposed placement of the rocks and discussing signaling if one needs to be moved, Amanda explains about the flannel drape coverings. “For you, you’ll just fold it down to the area on your back you’re comfortable with and I’ll work above the fold.”

Then they stepped out to allow the rest of Hair Club to disrobe and get under their sheets.

 

The face rest takes a moment of examination and adjustment. He doesn’t like the pressure, but it being tilted up and covered in a folded flannel drape helps — perhaps it’s the different soft texture it provides.

…And also recognizing that he could easily snap it off with a single head butt if he chose. 

He settles down, lastly seeing the therapist across the way begin on one of Ms Potts arms before he relaxes into it.

“If you need to, just raise up and rest your head on your folded arms. Whatever is most comfortable.”

Hot rocks are not unpleasant.

Amanda places parallel rows of them down either side of his spine, skipping the vertebra just at his shoulder blades and resuming at the base of his neck, then with many more running along his right shoulder.

It’s nice.

But it’s not as good as a pulsing hot shower though.

He’s relaxed. The room is quiet and comfortable — he could easily just take a nap and coast through the rest of this mission.

Boring.

CONFIRM.

Confirm.

Everyone spoke about this as the best part — the dessert of Spa Day.

Lifting his head, he peers across at Potts.

Angie is performing her massage and is smoothly and deeply stroking through the muscles of Pepper’s shoulders. Her hands and Ms Potts skin are silky-glossy with almond oil and Ms Potts is pursing her lips, then sighing, obviously feeling something release.

Angie’s face is calm and focused, and her hands, fingers together to make the largest contact surface, are strong looking and gentle all at the same time. Potts is limp and melted into the contact.

It looks… … nice.

Confirm?

Hey. Confirm.

CONFIRM.

Not so quick when the shoe’s on the other foot, huh mission?

Barnes blinks. That didn’t come from the mission. It came from the briefing.

CONFIRM. Nice. Pleasurable.

Shut it briefing. Today’s been enough. Give a guy a break, okay?

Tilting his head up a little more, a rock from his shoulder topples to the floor.

Hair Club’s unit leader opens her eyes and looks over curiously.

He smiles sheepishly to let her know it’s okay as Amanda hurries to retrieve the stone.

Potts beams back. Skin crinkling around her eyes with her smile.

And the briefing strikes. 

Just one image. Really quick, like a stab.

Barnes blinks at Pott’s smiling face.

What just happened…

“Hey there.” Amanda brakes the flash, the after image of the memory. “How’re you doing? Tell me what you need.”

He swallows and tips his chin forward. “It looks nice.”

“Do you want to try it Barnes?” Angie whispers, still working Pepper’s shoulders. 

He hesitates. 

Amanda meets his eyes. “It is 100 percent okay to switch, or just try a little.” She assures him. “No big deal.”

“Some? Not everywhere.”

“Of course.” Amanda agrees. “Tell you what, same as before, you fold the drape and uncover where you want me to work. I’ll stay on those spots unless you say otherwise.”

Barnes nods.

“While you do that, I’m going to pull the scan up again so I can see it and remember where your pins are.”

Potts was now making that watery smile like she was going tear up and Angie rolls her eyes before pushing down in a firm stroke. “Good grief. Let the man relax, Pepper. Don’t make me shove your face back in the donut.”

Barnes hears her hiccup a laugh before she drops her face back in the padded rest.

 

Shoulders only. That was safe to try. If the head and hair were pleasant, then the neck and shoulders seem a logical progression. 

He folds the drape down to just below his shoulder blades.

That would do.

But after a moments consideration, he balls up enough of the drape in his hands to expose his feet about halfway up his calves.

Amanda snickers, opening different oils for him to smell. “Max told me you liked the pedicure. What do you think of this? It’s ginger - very warming.”

Barnes nods for her. “It’s good.” In all honesty, he likes most of the modern toiletries’ scents. They can smell like anything from flowers and fruit to spices, or even hot drinks and sweets. Why would you smell medicinal like the old menthol aftershaves or the cloying sweet clove and alcohol stink of Bay Rum when you could smell like almonds or a cookie?

He watches her oil up her hands. “I’ll check in with you about the pressure and you can tell me if you want more, less or if it’s good. Also, if you don’t like it, at any time, just say ‘stop’. We can take a break, or go back to the stones. Okay?”

Another nod.

She slants her eyes at him. “I’d feel better if you verbalized it. You get me?”

Another nod. “More. Less. That’s good. Stop.” He quotes for her.

“A plus plus.” She smiles. “We can start whenever you’re ready.”

 

After he puts his head down, choosing to use the face rest, the contact begins at his neck and moves in stages. The first stage seems to be to sweep the hands and oil over the area to be worked — familiarizing him with the touch. The second is testing pressure as she begins to make deep long strokes down either side of his neck, fanning into the base of his neck and top of shoulders.

The memory briefing flips over a couple times, baffled,  and he feels an involuntary clench and twitch. Tense. Ready to spring up.

Sam always tells him to try to name his feelings.

He identifies the pressure on his face reminding him of the chair’s head restraints and his body’s confusion of it being coupled with a touch that doesn’t bring pain.

Amanda feels his tension and lightens up, at one point just resting still warm hands on his neck, before bringing them up to back comb with her fingers in his hair, nails gently raking his scalp.

Familiar. Pleasurable, but different from how Potts or Hill would brush his hair.

He huffs as a tingle releases down his spine and he lets himself settle more.

The muscles of his shoulders are habitually tight and clenched. As this woman works to unknot them he feels suddenly self conscious about it. He hadn’t considered the intimacy of what this would reveal. What she is feeling carried in his back speaks solely of the misery of the 70 years in a way he never could with words — he cannot hide it —  and this stranger only answers it with warmth, with quiet firm coaxing in her touch. 

He breathes and thinks about the image the briefing sent him when he watched Potts smile with the crinkled eyes…

He breathes and lets himself feel the sensation of contact…

He breathes and feels himself shudder as an area yields, tingles and becomes looser.

His breath becomes a heavier sigh, then deepens and becomes more even.

 

At some point, she is asking him to roll over. He does so, slowly, dazed, and immediately closes his eyes again, vaguely aware of her bringing the flannel drape over his shoulders to cover them. A moment later he feels her begin work on his feet, and that feels very good. Calming. He lets himself drift…

 

“You’re not waking him up.” Angie informs them. “House rules — we don’t disturb guests. Hang out and grab another glass of wine.”

“Sure. Of course.” Nat smiles, but watches and waits as she disappears back up front.

Maria, Nat and Pepper have all finished, donned robes and slunk past Barnes, who is about a thousand leagues away from the alert upright world. Now they are gathered behind the drawn curtains that close the group’s massage room.

“Ladies?” Maria gestures to the lounge.

Romanoff puts up an arm blocking the others. “No way. Not yet.”

Hill cocks an eyebrow.

“He fell asleep. Fair’s fair.”

“ _You_ fell asleep. During your pedicure. You snored.”

“Not my fault no one took advantage of the moment.”

“Right.” Maria snorts. “What are you going to do? Put his bra in the freezer? Stick his hand in warm water?”

“Good grief. What kind of slumber parties did you go to?” Potts gasps. “Whatever happened to popcorn, Blind Date and Ouija boards?”

Nat rolls her eyes at them both. “I don’t have a death wish. What I do, he won’t even wake up.”

She shows them what she has hidden in the pocket of her robe.

“Oh Jesus Pepper. Don’t give me that look. You look like Bambi’s mom or something.”

Maria grins. “I’m in. Christ, you’ve got a set of stones on you Nat. Let’s do this.”

 

*

 

“Buck? Are your toenails, uh, blue?”

Barnes pauses in mid-bite of his pastrami sandwich (he’d come back upstairs to Steve’s version of cooking: take-out from the Jewish deli) and examines his well-groomed feet. 

Good of you to notice smart guy.

“Red, white and blue.” He corrects and returns to eating.

“Hair Club has hazing rituals?”

“I’m officially a member.” He gestures to the spa robe and sheep pants. “This is our uniform.”

They are sitting on the couch in front of a nature show about cheetahs. Steve’s latest sketch book is open just behind their spread of knishes, pickles, and ginger ale, with two pages filled with studies of big cats.

“You should draw cat Eleanor.” Barnes nods at the animals, changing the subject.

Steve smiles and flips back a couple pages to a half page of the house cat in three quarters profile. “She started this.” He laughs.

The sketches bring back the thought of the mission briefing’s last image. The quick sneak attack one.

And it’s connected somehow… to the why of his feeling easier with the women.

How.

Polishing off the last bite of his sandwich, Barnes rises and hurries to his bedroom. 

Where is it.

Here.

 

Steve looks up at him curiously as he returns to the sofa, holding the sketchbook he’d given him for Christmas.

“Will you tell me about —?”

“Of course Bucky. Always.”

He sits, closer than usual, and hunts in the book, finally folding it open on an image. A portrait. A smile with crinkles around the eyes, just so. The one Potts reminds him of and it makes him feel… …good and safe.

“This one?”

Steve swallows hard. “Yeah. Sure Buck. That’s Rebecca. Your oldest sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this was my first stab at any Stucky or MCU characters writing, and I don't usually write trying to do someone else's style -- but I just love Owlet's Barnes and her 'kinder, gentler MCU' so much! It's been a fun adventure and I hope you liked it!
> 
> I'd love to work on something else soon -- does anyone have suggestions on sites with prompt postings to browse?


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